


Ars Poetica

by asuralucier



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bad Poetry, Episode Tag MAG 032, M/M, Pre-Slash, Season 1, William McGonagall - Freeform, fluff?, i don’t know, my approach to this canon is that Jon needs a hug or some fancy hot choc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24009001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: After reading the particularly affecting statement of Jane Prentiss, Jon needs a lie down, and maybe some distraction. Good thing  Martin is there with a mug of cocoa andreally badpoetry.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 7
Kudos: 92





	Ars Poetica

Jon’s back is not what it used to be. This isn’t surprising to him in the least, even if his bones want him to think differently. They say that after the age of twenty-five, the human body starts to give up, starts to deteriorate in anticipation of going back from whence it came. Not that Jon would consider himself in any way religious, but a lifetime of Catholicism shoved down a boy’s throat is hard to shake and harder to throw back up.

But given everything else that’s been happening around the Archives recently, that’s almost a comfort. 

Jon does everything he needs to in a hurried trance. Nothing that he hasn’t done a hundred times, so there’s hardly anything to think about. He turns off the tape recorder and puts it back into its allotted drawer. After that, he straightens the loose leaves of Jane Prentiss’s statement and shoves the pages back into its designated folder. In order, more or less, maybe. 

His hands are shaking. Possibly, he’s been drinking too much tea, but that’s not it. 

Normally, Jon would retreat to the back room for some air, or at least, for a few enviable inhales not caked in decades-old dust, but Martin’s more or less camped out there now, and it feels wrong to impose. It’s not Martin’s fault that he’s living there, after all. 

Anyway, Jon thinks he’d rather be alone. Once he’s pushed in his chair next to the desk, there’s just about enough room for him to stretch out and stare at the ceiling. More cobwebs, they practically grow themselves around here. 

Jon doesn’t know what he’s expecting really, perhaps for the feeling of dread, having permeated his entire body like a bad sunburn moments before, to subside slowly. He squeezes his eyes shut to help it along, but no such luck. 

Suddenly, something dull scrapes insistently by the edge of his elbow and Jon opens his eyes again. It’s someone--Martin, of course--trying to open the door. 

“Jon? What are you doing on the floor?” 

Everything about Martin is guileless and absurd. Despite the Archives offering less amenities than a Travelodge, Martin still looks grateful to be here. He’s probably just grateful to be alive, you know, more than the average person. 

“I’m,” Jon starts and stops. _Overcome by existential dread_ is probably the closest to the truth without mentioning Prentiss’s name. It’s not so much that Jon doesn’t think Martin can’t handle it, but more so that he can’t bring himself to say another word. It’s as if the dread has a mind of its own, and it won’t be exposed. The more Jon tries to put his discomfort into words, the more this invisible vise wraps around his throat. 

Finally Jon shakes himself and makes a pretty good go of clearing his throat. “I just wanted to lie down, that’s all.” 

“Oh.” Martin peers down at him again. “Is that erm, comfortable?” 

“Well.” Jon tilts his chin up slightly at an angle, mostly so that he can shift and meet Martin’s gaze. “No, not really, Martin.” 

“You could lie down in the back room,” Martin continues, as if Jon hasn’t spoken. Perhaps this is his way of showing Jon that sarcasm doesn’t work on him anymore. “ ‘S not as if there isn’t a bed.”

“It’s your bed.” 

“The bed belongs to the Institute,” Martin says, a beat too quickly and somehow, Jon is relieved. It’s like things have gone back to normal, except they haven’t. “Anyway, only if you want.” 

Jon shifts, and his spine protests accordingly. “I suppose I will, for a bit. Will you help me up?” 

When Jon was still a researcher under Gertrude Robinson, he often availed himself to the back room. The space is set up like the bedsit that he used to rent in his third year at Oxford, with its own sink and cooker. It’d felt familiar, but Jon wouldn’t venture so far as to call it homesickness. 

Every time Jon had used the back room, he’d been careful not to leave any crumb of himself in it when he left. Clearly, Martin doesn’t share this philosophy, although living in the back room for a week isn’t the same as being cooped up in the Institute for months. 

Still, even as the tiny room has Martin stamped all over it, it’s neat enough. Save for a notepad and a dictionary spread out over the mattress, which Martin hurries to clear before he invites Jon to sit down. 

“It’s a thesaurus, actually,” Martin admits, a small rosy bloom of colour splashed over his cheeks. “Was trying to look up alternatives to ‘unalloyed. Anyway.” He puts the notepad and thesaurus aside to hurry to the cooker. Overhead is a single shelving unit and Martin rummages through it before he comes away with a light blue tin labeled ‘drinking chocolate.’ “--Sorry, Would you like some cocoa? I got a fancy tin from Waitrose. I usually don’t buy this stuff, but I think it was accidentally put on offer.” 

“What do you mean accidentally?” Jon still feels weird toeing off his shoes and stretching out on the bed. He tries not to think of it as Martin’s bed. It’s every bit as uncomfortable as he remembers, and that helps. 

“I mean, it’s never been on offer before.” 

There are severe holes in that logic, but Jon is suddenly too tired to argue. “Right. I’ll--try some.” 

While the kettle’s on the boil, Jon does another general sweep around the room, and to his utmost relief, he doesn’t find any more cobwebs. Or worms. 

“Martin.” 

“Yeah, Jon?” 

“Unreserved. Veritable.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“You said you were looking for a word,” Jon says, not exactly looking at him. “For unalloyed. Did you find one?” 

“Oh, not yet.” Martin shakes his head, but then he brightens. “But you know, ‘a field of veritable daffodils.’ Has a certain ring to it. I ought to write that down, thanks for that.” And Martin does, after he’s spooned two generous scoops of chocolate flakes into a couple of mugs. 

Jon narrows his eyes at Martin’s back. “What exactly is this for?” 

“I write poetry,” Martin says, almost _proudly_ and somehow, that’s not surprising either. 

“About...flowers?” 

“About lots of things,” Martin comes over to the bed bearing a mug for him, and Jon scoots to make room, if only to be polite. “Whatever strikes my fancy. Here you go.” 

“I bet you’re a regular William McGonagall,” Jon mutters against the rim of the mug. By his estimation, ‘a field of venerable daffodils’ has to be up there with ‘Alas, I’m sorry to say / Ninety lives have been taken away.’ But Jon doesn’t say that out loud. 

Martin is watching him carefully. “Not heard of him.” 

Still, Jon has to admit that the chocolate is pretty good. He’s not exactly a connoisseur of these things, but there’s something compelling about the way the sweetness is at first faint on his tongue, and then the taste rolls over the rest of his mouth. Despite himself, Jon already feels better. So maybe he doesn’t mind giving Martin a bit of a compliment, just this time. “He’s up there with Keats.”

**Author's Note:**

> William McGonagall is my favorite certified Terrible Poet. The bit that Jon quotes to himself is from McGonagall’s most (in)famous poem, [The Tay Bridge Disaster](https://www.mcgonagall-online.org.uk/gems/the-tay-bridge-disaster).
> 
> Plus plus, this [hot chocolate is seriously sexy](https://www.charbonnel.co.uk/original-drinking-chocolate-300g.html). I keep waiting for it to accidentally go on offer and it still never does.


End file.
